


Bonded for Science

by flowerofdeath



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Bottom Jack, Breeding, HYDRA Husbands, Hydra (Marvel), Knotting, M/M, Werewolf Brock Rumlow, Werewolves, rumrollinsweek2020
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:21:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24434257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowerofdeath/pseuds/flowerofdeath
Summary: Brock Rumlow has been a werewolf for longer than he can remember.  He’s lived peacefully in the forest as a ‘permanent’ werewolf, his human form being the rare thing that comes out once a month.But now someone has caught onto the fact that there’s a werewolf in the forest.  And they want to be the first ones to find it.Good luck, Rumlow.  You’re going to need it.
Relationships: Brock Rumlow/Jack Rollins, Hydra Husbands - Relationship, Jack Rollins/Brock Rumlow, Rumrollins - Relationship
Comments: 3
Kudos: 18





	Bonded for Science

The night is quiet. The wind shifts through the trees and the grass rustles beneath the lumbering beast. The night was calm, more calm than he was used to.

The night was just waiting for something to happen. 

The werewolf shifts quietly in its bed of grass and leaves, ears perking up as he strains to hear something off in the distance. Could be his ears playing tricks on him. They have before. Maybe he was just paranoid, worried about all those nasty humans that wanted to come kill him. Though, it’s been literal years since he saw another human in this form. 

In his human form he frequents the local town, staying at some hotel or catching a ride back home with a hot chick (or even an equally attractive dude if the night called for it.) He never had to worry about finding a place to sleep or something to eat while in his human form.

He worked differently than other werewolves. He couldn’t find anything on his… ‘condition’. He liked to call himself a reverse werewolf. Where his ‘natural’ form was that of a large wolf instead of a human. He thinks he liked it better that way, living his life as a lone alpha wolf and coming to town once a month when his human form made an appearance.

Made it easier to not get attached to anyone.

There’s a moment again where the werewolf is absolutely sure it heard something off in the distance.

That HAD to mean something now. He couldn’t hear something twice like that and not be worried. Chances are, it was some deer wandering too close into his territory. Maybe it was dying or something. Wanted the beast to put it outta its misery.

Or maybe it was some stupid ass hunter, drunk and lost in the forest. This would set him back. As much as he wanted to rip any trespassing hunters apart, he would have a whole team after him in no time. He wouldn’t stand a chance. And who knows how many other wolves in the area they’d kill thinking they were the ones?

He couldn’t do that.

His nostrils flare as the werewolf catches the scent of something coming downwind. There’s a quiet noise of rustling far off in the distance, a low whine of some radio, and voices. Several fucking voices.

That can’t be any group of hunters. 

Not the ones that usually clunk through the forest, drunk off their ass and waking every goddamn thing up in the forest. 

No, this felt too… organized.

Slowly, the curiosity gets the better of the creature, which was mistake number one.

His nostrils flare, the beast moving from his nest to walk out into the night. Blinking slow, Brock hunches over as he listens intently for more sound of movement. It takes a moment for him to pick up on anything again, eyes adjusting easily to the dark. Yet they see nothing in the forest he calls home. 

As much as a 7 foot (and some change) beast can, he slinks through the forest, body brushing against trees and low branches. His tail low and still as his ears perk and strain to hear more noise of what was in his forest. Could they be avoided? Did he have to kill? His stomach gives a low gurgle in reminder he hasn’t eaten in a while. But did he have to kill? There’s all these questions running through his mind as he moves, eyes sharp and trained on a path in front of him. 

The scent of man grows stronger as he moves, yet he still has no sight on what he was searching for. His heart pounds in his chest, nostrils giving another harsh flare just as the wind changes. 

Just as he catches a strong scent of something it’s too late.

“Holy FUCK-- GUYS--”

The agent, all dressed in black, scrambles to lift his gun and to grab at a device pinned to his tac vest, but the werewolf is faster. He has to be to survive.

He’s acting on instincts as soon as he opens his mouth, teeth glinting in the light of the agents flashlight as he lunges for the man. Teeth find purchase as soon as his jaw shuts, a terror filled scream sounding into the werewolves mouth. A few sickening crunches later and the man goes limp in his mouth. Blood gushes and bone splinters, but the werewolf doesn’t release yet. His nostrils flood with the metallic scent of blood, ears tilting to listen for movement in the surrounding forest. Whoever else was here had to have heard the man screeching into the night. 

Panic fills the werewolf as it drops the twitching body to the ground. His eyes barely strain to see each gorey detail on the ground, brain egging him on to enjoy the meal he caught. It was so fucking wrong. He just killed a human. Something he shouldn’t feel so attached to anymore. After all this time as a more permanent werewolf he shouldn’t feel so bad for the guy. He walked right into him. Brock did nothing wrong here. He protected himself. 

The werewolf hadn’t tried the whole ‘bullet’ thing. He knows he heals faster than a human, but he knows bullets hurt. He doesn’t want his demise to be a fucking bullet.

He doesn’t have time to linger on the man’s death, eyes following down from the imploded helmet and brains to the weapon on the ground. Fuck, this was fucked up.

He’s keenly aware at that moment of voices over the radio. Ones asking for a radio check from…. There’s static and silence. Then another voice.

“Radio check.”

There’s a few voices… eight if the werewolf hears correctly.

“McCullough. How copy?”

Fuck. His fucking clock was ticking now.

Panic fills the werewolf as he looks back down at the bloodied mess at his feet. A long few seconds pass before he’s able to get moving again. Back into the depths of the forest. 

How did they not hear their man scream? Maybe he had gone first? As a scout? Or maybe they knew and were closing in on him by the fucking second. This had to be some kinda military operation, there was no way these were just normal civilians.

Brock’s head fills with a million thoughts as he moves through the thickest part of the forest. His fur catches on low branches, breath harsh as he sprints. The taste and smell of blood fogging up his senses. That was dangerous. All of this was fucking dangerous.

He just hopes if they do catch him, they kill him on sight. He doesn’t wanna become a fucking science project on a table. He doesn’t think he can fucking handle that again.

And just as the werewolf starts to clear its head again, the fucker slams into something, going ass over head into the fucking brush. Fuck! Rolling onto its side, the beast cranes its head out to see what he could have collided with. 

Please be a fucking tree stump. Or an old tree. He would fucking take that over another agent any fucking day.

The groans prove him wrong in about four seconds. Fuck.

Standing, Brock feels a pain in his leg. It isn’t too bad, but fuck it didn’t feel good. 

Cautiously, the creature stalks forward to the groaning man. Luckily, the man was too concerned over hitting a fucking brick wall to call on his radio to the other people on the team. Okay, wait. If he had just killed one of the members...and he kills this one….only seven would remain. He could fucking pick them out one by fucking one.

Right. That’s the goddamn plan now whether he liked it or not.

Brock takes a deep breath as he lurches forward, getting just a moment to look at the man writhing in pain on the ground. The sound of blood rushes in his ears, a crazed feeling welling up in his gut as the fresher scent of blood fills the air. It takes a moment to see it at first, the night so dark and the man's uniform so good at hiding his body. 

Bone glistens as the man turns his head, the flashlight illuminating the night and surrounding area. So fucking slowly does it turn towards the werewolf. And just as the man’s eyes fill with horror, the beast pounces, ending his life in a sick crunch of bones and tearing of flesh.

This kill takes longer to step away from, the werewolf panting and trying to break back through to his more human mind. Fuck. Fuck.

As if against his will, his body begins to move, head turning this way and that. Ears swivelling to listen for his next victim. His stomach growls more intensely, sending the wolf into a full on sprint through the trees. It’s easier to hear now. Easier to move. To feel the forest beneath him. To sense his prey around him.

Wait, fuck. No. Not prey-- these were fucking humans around him. Not fucking snack food. 

Despite his best attempts to come to his senses, his limbs continue to move on their own will. Just down the fucking line he goes, mind rushing after that high the bloodlust provides. His muscles burn with the amount of fucking running he was doing. It would be different if this was the fucking daytime and he had been out and about already. Not fucking laying down getting ready to sleep.

But why was he trying to justify his pain? He needed to focus. He was darting between trees, body finding its own rhythm in moments. Like his body was built to chase down prey over and over again. Like this is what being a werewolf meant…

Slowly, his mind starts slipping into this false sense of security. He hasn’t run into anymore agents in a few minutes, the bloodlust starting to fade and his sense slowly slipping back from heightened to---

And suddenly, without warning, the werewolf comes skidding to a halt. He sees nothing, but his senses are screaming at him to turn around and leave. To get out of there!

Fuck, okay. Shit. The werewolf turns, tripping over its own paw and colliding with the ground. It takes a moment to get back up before he really senses what is going on around him.

He just walked right into a goddamn trap.

But how? How were they this organized? How did they know he’d come barreling this way towards whatever this location was?

There were too many questions to answer, the werewolf standing on its hind legs to try and get a better view over bushes. Flashlights slowly start shining on him, a low hum filling the air as several agents start closing in on him. Guns are raised and trained on him, but nobody is communicating.

What the fuck does it all mean?

Brock turns in a slow circle, dropping back down on all fours to assess the situation. Think. You know how to get outta this. You can get out of here. There’s only seven of them. Only seven… ‘Only’ started sounding like code for ‘a lot of them’. Dark eyes dart between the closest agents, muscles tensing before he uses those powerful back legs to jump onto one of them.

The man screams, Brock using long claws to tear and slash as his teeth sink into a shoulder. The crushing noise is quickly drowned out by the blood curdling screams and the screams are drowned out by the sound of a gun. Of several guns firing.

His back erupts in pain, the werewolf howling and releasing the screeching man. His body turns towards the muzzle of the next gun, body propelling itself forward onto the next target. The radio is suddenly filled with yells and talk of confirmed hits. Though, that’s the last thing on his mind right now.

This agent goes a bit quieter than the last, but just as importantly, he gets a round into the werewolves chest as a last little triumph. The pain is enough to anger the beast more, claws sinking through the front of the vest and into the chest of the man. He’s able to watch the life fade from his eyes before the next human is close enough.

By the time he’s moved onto his next target he’s started to feel off his game. Dizzy. Lightheaded. Out of fucking sorts.

Brock’s rush to the next agent feels like he’s crawling through sand, each limb feeling heavy even as his mind races and wills him forward. He can see his target, can practically taste their blood gushing into his mouth. Can feel the crack of their bones between his teeth.

There wasn’t anything stopping him from getting to the tall man. There was nothing in his fucking way.

But before he can make it, his body quits on him. Eyes feel heavy and limbs refusing to move another inch. His mind feels like it was drowning. The ground spun, the werewolves eyes starting to roll back in its head as his body found a settling place in the ground.

Is this what dying felt like? Was he fucking dying? Shit. He thought he could get outta this. Or at least take more of those bastards down with him. But no, he had to go and… and… Fuck he felt tired. Tired enough that his tongue lolls from his mouth and he feels something tug on his ear. A low voice sounds above him as his last moments of consciousness come to a stop.

“This is Rollins. We dropped him, ETA four hours. Have more tranqs ready on arrival.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all!
> 
> This is my entry for Rumrollins week 2020! This is for Sunday, but I decided to post early. 
> 
> This story is based off an RP I wrote with a close friend. Thanks, Mads!
> 
> There will be multiple parts to this so don't worry about this being over! 
> 
> Thanks for the support and feel free to leave a comment about something you'd like to see happen in the story.
> 
> Have a good day/night <3


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